Netflix
by captainodonewithyou
Summary: Emma gets a tattoo. Killian finds it. Fluff ensues. A long time in the making, this is a birthday gift for the lovely blowmiakisscolin. (pirate)


She is in the kitchen. He can hear the now familiar soft clang of glass mugs and the gentle scraping of her stirring a pot of cocoa that smells bloody heavenly. He thinks he could get used to this, these nights that Emma invites him in and makes him supper and curls beside him on the couch. Always under the pretense of Netflix, of course, because to say he spent their time watching only her—the crinkling of her eyes in a laugh, the gentle way her shirt rode up her belly on the occasion she cuddled nearer to him, the soft crinkle of her nose when she tried not to yawn—he knows better than to believe it would go down well with anyone.

The television is dark and he is slumped awkwardly alone on the couch as per orders ("Wait here, I'll make cocoa."), but he is finding it harder and harder to stay put knowing she is merely a room over. He fidgets and shifts and finally gives in, lifting himself from the seat and working his way in as near to silence as he can to the kitchen.

She doesn't see him, not at first. She is focused, carefully ladling the steamy dark cocoa from the saucepan to a mug. Her brow is furrowed in cautious concentration, determined not to spill, and he crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe and watches.

She is in small shorts—the ones nearly as soft as her skin that ride low on her hips—and a white top that only just hides the ribbon of skin above her waistband. She finishes pouring the chocolate and looks about a moment, running a hand through her hair and rearranging the long shining curls down her back. She does not find what she is looking for, but seems to recall where to find it as she lifts up onto her tiptoes and reaches for the uppermost cabinet.

Her shirt rides up, and his eyes travel unashamedly to the creamy skin at her waist. For a moment he thinks his eyes might be deceiving him, or that he may have just caught a shadow and he squints, creeping slightly forward onto the tiled floor of the kitchen. But the closeness only clears his view of what is most certainly a tattoo, etched into the skin of her hip, just peeking out from the waist of her shorts. It is delicate and shaped like a heart—and he can almost swear that the two halves are a swan… and a hook.

"Killian."

The cupboard slams and he gives a start, and when he looks back, her shirt has shifted back to hide the mark from view. He had wandered further into the kitchen than he'd meant, hardly noticing his steps in his concentrated stupor. He can tell he's startled her, but it is only a blessed moment before a twinkling smile plays at her lips.

"See something you like, pirate?" she asks in the teasing tone that he absolutely adores, cocoa all but forgotten. She is holding a bag of marshmallows in both hands, evidently what she'd been retrieving when he had interrupted.

"Aye," he agrees, matching her tone, "Something quite intriguing indeed."

Her brow gives the slightest furrow but her smirk does not falter, taking his challenge head on.

"Oh?"

He knows her encouragement when he sees it, the slightest flick of a brow daring him to come closer and he doesn't hesitate to take the short step between them. He holds her gaze as he finds the marshmallows and slips them from her grasp, plopping them unceremoniously upon the counter beside them (quite luckily avoiding the neatly poured cocoa). She watches him with a challenging glint in her eye.

He reaches towards her cautiously, giving her time to back away, and when she doesn't, brings his hand gently to her hip, fingers curling into the soft cotton of her shirt right above where he saw the tattoo. Realization clicks and she takes half a step back into the counter, playfulness replaced with blatant insecurity. He lets his hand fall back to his side, heart giving a nervous shudder.

"You weren't supposed to see that," she tells him with a shaky smile, reaching to gently straighten his perpetually crooked collar, reopening herself to him… and she is blushing.

"See what?" he tries halfheartedly with his best smile, and he earns an amused shake of her head.

"You'd think a pirate would be a far better liar than you are, Killian," she smirks, and seems to contemplate something a moment before the uncertainty in her eyes shifts minutely. She drops her hand to his wrist, taking it gently and guiding him back to her waist, simultaneously bowing her head nearer to him. "Go ahead," she says, voice just above a whisper, "Take a look."

He can again feel her warmth through the shirt as her hand releases him, fingers playing gently across his arm, and it makes his heart thunder in his chest. He slides his own fingers cautiously down until they meet the hem, and slowly slips beneath, rough fingers (fingers that house 300 years of wear) brushing silky skin as he lifts her shirt, just above the crest of what he now is certain is a heart.

She shifts minutely as to give him a better view, thin fingers brushing past his own to slip her shorts just slightly further down her waist, bringing the full marking into sight. He studies it a moment, gingerly tracing the swan and the hook in turn, heart threatening to thud out of his bloody chest. He feels her head bowed near his, watching his fingers continue their absentminded circling, close enough that her golden tresses tickle his cheek.

He searches for something to say, something to translate the lightness within him to words but he continues to come up empty. His lips are parted when he meets her eyes again in utter awe.

"You like it?" she grins tentatively at his silence, and although he feels quite certain the woman could care bloody less what he or anyone else thought of anything she did, he offers a meek, awestruck nod.

They are nose to nose and he can make out every golden fleck in her eyes before he kisses her. Hard, because if there is one thing he loves about his Swan (and there is far more than that) it is her ability to handle him. His fingers clench around the soft skin at her waist and he presses her further back into the counter. His body shudders as her hands play up his chest, one grasping his shoulder and the other slipping up his neck and up to tug at his hair, nails scraping.

And then he stops—rubs his nose delicately along hers and meets her eyes with the lightest of smiles.

"You are an exquisite lass," he tells her softly, and revels in the self-aware smirk that lights up her face.

"It's just a tattoo, Killian," she finally says, tugging gently where her fingers are still carded through the hair at the nape of his neck, smirk softening ever-so-slightly, nearly shy.

He rubs his thumb again over the marking he has now committed to memory, feeling her shiver beneath him.

"Indeed," he agrees, kissing her forehead tenderly and brushing his lips to her ear, "Which is why the tattoo is not what I was speaking of."

(This time, she kissed him harder. When he woke up tangled beside her the next morning, thumb still absently stroking hearts on her hip… he decided he much preferred dates that didn't involve near death experiences after all. Even if Emma did berate him through a smile when they rediscovered their now iced cocoas still sat untouched on the counter. It was his fault for distracting her, of course. He happily took the blame).


End file.
